


Whistle

by triptocaine



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triptocaine/pseuds/triptocaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's been waiting for four months for the return of one certain Assassin. A soft whistle leads him out and a shadow causes him a safe passage to free him. Finally, the wait is over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whistle

**Author's Note:**

> hwoo is the sound of whistling.

It could have been a few months, maybe even a year since the escape. Connor was his name, wasn't it? He had gotten away only because there was a dire need for him to be gone, wrongly accused and without a trial. A soft sigh escaped the brunette's mouth, flicking his now almost to-long bangs out of his eyes.

It may have only taken a month before the poet realized that he wasn't getting out. Connor said he'd come back, didn't he? He made a promise.

By the second month, the talk of him had been long forgotten, only simple games being played at the tables during their breaks. Their "free" time, the guards called it.

By the third, he'd given up hope in all sense of the word on Connor coming back for him. He wasn't getting out. Maybe he didn't make a big enough impression on the Native? No, he helped him escape from jail. What would cause- it didn't matter.

By the fourth month, he laid down to rest on his back, staring up at the macabre ceiling. He stopped asking questions. He stopped wondering when and if he'd be back. Hell, Connor was probably dead.

"Oi!" a low voice called out. "Looks like Mr. Writah do's't wohnt to come out to play!"

Ruffians. Thugs. Killers. The whole lot of them.

"Is tha' so?" another voice, a higher frequency, but more gruff. "You coul' just grab 'im by the ankles and fo'ce 'im out he'e!"

He didn't belong here. He needed to get out. And Connor was the only one who would be able to come to help him. A promise. A promise that he wasn't sure should be claimed broken or just taking a long time. He should just give up.

Four months, sixteen days and twenty hours.

He lost the image of Connor's face in his mind. Connor must have been a ghost. He didn't exist, did he? What did it matter? It was too dark. Too damp. Too cold. He could feel his feet going numb as he walked around, trying to keep himself warm. He was tempted to scream, throw things around, but that would get him nowhere. It wouldn't accomplish anything but just bring him further down where it was even colder.

_hwoo._

He looked around. What was that? A bird? Another prisoner? Must have been. That or he was finally breaking. He quickly put his hands under his armpits in a desperate attempt to keep them from going numb. But nothing was working. He couldn't get warm, and the weather was only getting colder and colder.

_hwo-hwoo._

There is was again. He looked around once more, trying to find any sign of movement, any shift in atmosphere. This time, he went to the door, trying to peek out and spot anything. Nothing.

"H-hello?" his voice sounded foreign to him, broken, cold, chattering. He curled his toes in to bring them to life, but he was only met with a heavy-hanging silence and more cold.

_hwooo._

"Who's there?" he let out, a scuffle of cloth and a grunt coming from another one of the cells. "Hello?" Nothing was going to work.

"Quiet!" a guard harshly whispered, walking over to his cell and pushing him down onto the floor before stalking away. Getting up, he looked around, rubbing his lower back as he put his hands back to where they were. Grumbling, he turned around, and huffing angrily, sat down.

"Hey! Wha- aah!"

"Who is th-"

He looked around, holding his breath before turning to grab the small stub of a candle.

_Click._

Freezing, he turned around and watched his door creak open. He could feel his heart thumping against his chest in an attempt to break through. His breath hitched in his throat, his feet being bolted to the ground.

_hwo-hwoo._

That same sound was tempting him, beckoning him forward. Slowly, but surely, he began walking. He didn't know why he trusted the sound, but it seemed right. Safe. Content. Like an old friend. Walking forward, he looked, trying to find the source of the sound again.

_hwoo._

There it was, to the right of him this time. Turning, he spotted a dark shadow move off down another hall. Running, his bare feet padded softly against the cold cement before he stopped at the turn. Nothing. He was following nothing. A ghost. He huffed, crossing his arms as he stood patiently waiting for the next signal.

"Hey! You'e not supposed to be he'e!" he heard a guard, turning sharply only to duck a grabbing hand. About to turn and run, the guard was suddenly constrained and pulled back around a different corner. There was a moment of struggle from the guard's feet (of what he could see) and then soon, silence. A few seconds passed and a soft whistle echoed from that corner and the sound of feet.

Running to that spot, he looked, finding no one but the unconscious guard. Looking down at him, he spotted something. That was... that was one of his game pieces! But how?

Looking up, he heard the shift of someone again. Standing up, he started to briskly walk towards where the next hint was of his rescuer.

_Tch._

He stopped and found himself pressing against the wall as he heard a thud and a grunt, a whistle calling him forth. Moving again, he kept following the whistles. This was dangerous. He was playing a dangerous game. This could be someone who would and possibly will kill him. He swallowed down his fear as he reached a door. He could feel the cool wind hitting his toes and could see the specks of snow trying to break into the prison. Funny. Who would ever want to break into prison?

He took a step back. He wasn't an idiot. He'd freeze to death like this if he walked out.

_hwoo-hwo-hwo._

Turning, he watched the shadow move a different direction. Rolling his eyes, he was getting tired of chasing after a ghost. Walking over to that area, he was met with a small pile of clothes in front of him. Boots, thicker pants and... a cloak? He picked it u- oohh. It was wool. Oh gosh it was so warm.

Slipping on the offered clothes, he could feel the blood heating back up around his toes and his arms. Turning back to the door he held his breath.

What lay ahead in this brutal cold? An angel of death? -treating him with such kindness and heat for the last few moments of life. Or a savoir? -hoping to help him escape, but then ask for an immense amount of money in reward. He only hoped it was just a ghost. A ghost who lead him to freedom.

He stopped. This would be the first time in quite some time he'd see the outside world again. He was scared.

Finally, his hesitant hand rose and pushed the door open, met with the cold air and the gentle fall of white tears, decorating his face and clothes with shimmering threads and buttons until it turned to chilled water that was quietly absorbed into the warm clothe.

Closing the door behind him, he took a few steps out, lifting the hood over his head.

_hwoo._

So. More than a ghost, he thought as he looked down the alleyway and through the darkest parts.

_hwo-hwoo._

Impatient. He rolled his eyes and began to move towards the whistle, the soft crunching of snow making him smile beneath the shade of the warm clothes. Reaching the dark area, he looked around. Strange, it was a dead end. There was no place to continue from here. But, there were no guards too. And it seemed he was finally free from that dreaded place.

"Thank you Whistler," he called out. "Wherever you may be." He smiled again, taking his hood off to let the icy touch of white tears grace his features. He never knew that he'd fall in love with snow after being so cold in the prison.

"You're welcome," a voice said. Stoic. Low. Familiar. "Though it must be me to apologize for being so late. I never intended to make you stay for so long Mason."

He stopped. Familiar. A whistle like an old friend. The game piece. Slowly turning around, his eyes were met with a familiar set. His savior.

"Connor," he began, voice almost too flabbergasted to believe what he was seeing. "For a while I thought you weren't coming back. Then, I believed you were dead."

"I refuse to die when I have a promise to fulfill."

His breath hitched in his throat. What was he supposed to do? Hug him? Kiss him on both cheeks? shake his hand. Instead, he stood there, awkwardly yet understandingly.

"Thank you, Connor," he started, holding the cloak closed. "For getting me out, for the warmer clothes."

It was then that the old friend took his hood off and let the snow collect in the small muss of hair. That was strange. That was less hair than he remembered. Looking up, he furrowed his brow.

"What happened to your hair?" he asked softly, looking up to the darker skinned male. Connor took a few steps forwards before he was almost too close for comfort for him and gently reached a hand up to let his fingers glide through the tips of dark and dirty locks.

"You seemed to have stolen it," he muttered.

That caused a laugh from the both of them. It had been a while since he laughed, and the first time he heard the sound of Connor's laugh. It may have only been a chuckle, but it didn't matter to him. It was something other than the low, stoic and monotone anger that he had only heard four months ago.

There came another moment after the laughter died down and Connor didn't remove his hand from the prisoner's hair. Finally lifting his hand, he gently took Connor's wrist.

"Come with me Mason," Connor began. "I can bring you to a place where they won't ever be able to find you." His hand slipped back down to his side, allowing Connor's to keep playing with the dirty locks.

"Lead the way then," he began. "Preferably on horseback and soon. I'm getting cold and a fire with some hot drink sounds like a really good night right now."

And the question that was asked before. Whether to hug, to kiss cheeks or to shake a hand was answered. Connor pulled the initiative. It was a warm. Tight. Trusting. He felt his breath hitch in his throat again, just as it had when he heard the whistle. Pulling away from the hug, he smiled, not expecting a warm and hard-lipped kiss on his temple.

"It may take about two hours," Connor started as he began to lead the way around the corners and turns of the streets. "But if we take the direct route, we should be fine."

And Connor whistled, a horse rushing to them as the Native jumped on and pulled the other up. A whistle. An old friend. A game piece. A warm hug. Freedom.


End file.
